10
Visual Artists' News Sheet | July – August 2020
The Unseen Shows
Samuel Laurence Cunnane, Small truck burning, 2020, hand-printed C-type print on archival photopaper; 17.8 × 25.5 cm; all images courtesy of the artist and Kerlin Gallery
Dorje de Burgh: How do we talk about photography – or art – in a time of unprecedented global crisis? Samuel Laurence Cunnane: At a time like this, to make work is one of appropriate response, especially as we’re encouraging social isolation; but to talk of previous work seems odd, like seeing TV clips of people hugging and shaking hands – it’s unnerving. I suppose this is the response to a crisis – we go into a heightened state of awareness of the here and now. What do you think of this now widespread turn to the internet and online space, where we can continue our affairs, safe from COVID-19?
A Physical Existence DORJE DE BURGH TALKS TO SAMUEL LAURENCE CUNNANE ABOUT HIS CURRENT EXHIBITION AT KERLIN GALLERY.
DdB: Well it’s a paradox. On one level, it’s an incredible opportunity for humanity, to have these technologies at our fingertips in the midst of a universal crisis. It provides so many basic needs – community support, dissemination of information, etc. – while also allowing the potential for collective reappraisal and the sharing of ideas as we (hopefully) move towards a healing phase and a reimagining of the social/global landscape. On the flipside, however, our already pretty Baudrillardian world has suddenly gone full-virtual. It’s just very uncertain where it will all lead. To bring it back to the work, you are a self-confessed analogue fetishist, whose process pretty much ignores the digital. Do you feel that you would still be drawn to make art, if virtual space was the only avenue open to share the work? And if so, do you think you would change your working methods? SLC: I am, as you accurately point out, a total fetishist when it comes to the celluloid and chemical parts of the history of photography. But beyond the pure aesthetic question, is the process itself that I love so much. The act of disappearing into a completely darkened room, without screens or outside information, is a kind of sanctuary. The physical nature of cameras – the loud shutter, the clicks of the aperture rings, the tactile nature of the prints – all of these things are reminders of a physical existence. Would I still make work this way if a virtual gallery was the only platform? Most definitely. My biggest concern with the online space is that I feel my work adds to the deluge of imagery assaulting everyone on the internet. Do you ever worry that the aesthetic inherent in the analogue process distracts from deeper considerations of the work?
